


Eye for an Eye, Tooth for a Tooth?

by the_genderman



Series: The "oh god why"-verse [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Gen, Hydra (Marvel), Memories, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 06:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11777817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_genderman/pseuds/the_genderman
Summary: AKA "Scars: the Prequel" or "Scars, Part Zero." Probably ought to be read after the Scars trilogy, or otherwise the "plot twist" in Scars becomes not a plot twist.“What did you do to me?” the Asset hisses at him. (The Asset is somehow even more terrifying in civilian clothing, the doctor thinks.)“What?” the doctor asks, brain not quite comprehending the question, focusing instead on don’t-anger-the-rogue-killer-cyborg. If only Pierce weren’t dead, he’d know how to handle this.“What. Did. You. Do. To. Me?” the Asset asks more slowly.





	Eye for an Eye, Tooth for a Tooth?

**Author's Note:**

> The fifth section is from the HYDRA doctor's point of view (kinda), which is why Bucky is referred to as "the Asset" throughout it, even though he has begun referring to himself as Bucky again.

He can’t wait any longer. Officially, the Asset is supposed to return to its handlers at the completion of every mission, let them take care of its needs, but the Asset cannot find its handlers. They are all dead or missing. The bank was empty, Pierce’s house was full of police, and the Asset cannot afford to be apprehended. The Asset must fend for itself, he has done it before. Can pretend to be human. Has been given human names before. He has a name this time, not given by a handler, but by a … friend? James Buchanan ‘Bucky’ Barnes, friend of former mission Rogers, Steven Grant. The Asset is not Bucky, but it is not truly the Asset anymore, with no handlers to issue orders. Asset-Bucky must fend for himself. Asset-Bucky will go to the apartment belonging to Rogers, Steven Grant. Rogers will not be there, he will be in the hospital recovering from his injuries. Asset-Bucky will go to the apartment. There he will be able to relieve himself and feed and rehydrate and find new clothing before determining the next course of action.

\--------------------------------

Asset-Bucky knows something is wrong. He is in Rogers-comma-Steve’s bathroom. He has removed his protective gear, his uniform, piece by piece, smelling of sweat and blood and river water and burning and fear. The pants have been added to the pile in the corner. He removes the protective cup and a wave of nausea, revulsion, and anger? washes over him. This is wrong. There should be more than what he is seeing. He knows this. Even as the Asset, he knew basic biology. (He knew how to use that knowledge for his handlers. His handlers enjoyed making their prisoners squirm with very _specific_ threats of dismemberment. Was that why they had done this to him? Because he had recognized Rogers-comma-Steve on the bridge? Would he have remembered them doing it to him?) With his flesh hand (the nerves still tingled a little from having to reset the shoulder himself, but he felt that flesh was the better option), he gently touched the absence, brushing his fingertips over the scarring. Not fresh. Old scars.

Old scars. Meaning Asset-Bucky lived with this before. The Asset had known how to live with this impairment. (Or the handlers knew how to manage it, a thought enters his mind unbidden. The Asset once had something almost approaching autonomy, but that was a long time ago. Likely before he had earned this disfigurement.) The pressure in his bladder has moved past irritation to something that needs to be dealt with _soon_. He steps into the shower and turns the water on, finding familiarity in the cold spray against his skin. He places one hand against the tile wall, leaning slightly into it. The other comes to rest below his navel, the heel of his hand sitting over the point of his hipbone. What if this was why his handlers hadn’t let him out for extended missions anymore? It would be more than just embarrassing if he couldn’t even take a piss on his own anymore. He breathes in deep, exhaling and forcing himself to relax. 

He almost sighs with relief. Next order of business, clean and feed and rehydrate himself. Rogers-comma-Steve’s soap smells good, triggering something buried deep within his unconscious memory. A familiar scent. A galvanized tub in the middle of the kitchen, curtains drawn, kettle on the stove, heating water. Pressing the thin wafer of soap, too small for continued use on its own, into the new bar, hiding the debossed letters “IVORY” and getting the most use possible out of the soap. Asset-Bucky looks closer at the bar of soap in his hand and runs his fingernail around a barely visible seam. Old habits die hard. He supposes this must be a true memory. HYDRA would not think to implant something as benign as a memory of soap into the Asset’s programming. It would serve no purpose. Asset-Bucky lathers the soap and cleans himself slowly. Remembering.

\------------

Asset-Bucky is almost comfortable. He is wearing some of Rogers-comma-Steve’s clothing; it fits him well enough. He has eaten. Rogers-comma-Steve did not have any of the HYDRA-approved nutritional supplements or meal replacement mixes, so Asset-Bucky rooted around the refrigerator, eventually deciding on leftover meatloaf. It smelled so good as he heated it in a saucepan he found in the sink and washed out; the meatloaf, however, proved too heavy after the Asset’s mostly liquid diet. He would have to slowly reaccustom himself to normal food again. After he had recovered enough, he found a box of chicken broth and heated that in the meatloaf pan (no need to dirty two pans). He sips slowly at the hot broth and considers his next move. He has so many questions.

\-------------------------------------

Five days later he manages to track down the doctor who monitored his vitals whenever his handlers had been… handling… him. The doctor had taken refuge in a little-used safehouse in Virginia. Bucky had watched the house, making sure the doctor was alone. No need to bring anyone into this who wasn’t responsible for his condition. And besides, he’s tired. He doesn’t want to have to deal with more than one target right now. He’s not completely sure if it’s the transition from nutritionally complete HYDRA meal-replacement mixes to broth and slowly back onto solid food, a side effect of having had his junk lopped off, or all of the above, but he’s tired. He wants an explanation and the doctor seems the most likely to be able to give him one.

\-----------------

The doctor wakes suddenly in the middle of the night. A hand over his mouth silencing him. A hand, cold metal, on his throat telling him not to resist. The Asset is kneeling over him. The doctor squeaks in terror. He knew the Asset was durable, but to have survived the destruction of the helicarriers? “What do you want?” he whispers as soon as the hand leaves his mouth (the one on his throat remains, a reminder that he should cooperate to the best of his ability).

“What did you do to me?” the Asset hisses at him. (The Asset is somehow even more terrifying in civilian clothing, the doctor thinks.)

“What?” the doctor asks, brain not quite comprehending the question, focusing instead on don’t-anger-the-rogue-killer-cyborg. If only Pierce weren’t dead, he’d know how to handle this.

“What. Did. You. Do. To. Me?” the Asset asks more slowly.

“You’re going to have to be more specific,” the doctor says hoping his words don’t sound too flippant. No need to antagonize the Asset any further.

“Why did you cut my dick off?”

Oh. Of course. That would be one of the first things the Asset would notice as its programming wore off.

“Would you believe that wasn’t me? That you were already like that when we acquired you?” the doctor cringes, waiting for the fingers to tighten, but they don’t. The Asset merely stares at him, assimilating the information, deciding whether or not to believe him.

“But you know who did it and why,” the Asset finally says, his voice flat.

“I don’t know who specifically,” the doctor begins. The fingers twitch and he squeals “It was the Soviets, the Soviets! I don’t know who specifically did it, just that the Soviets did!” The fingers relax again, the Asset’s expression measured. The doctor notices the sudden clenching of the jaw. He quickly continues. “When we got you, your previous handlers, they had instructions. How to keep you, ah, in working order.”

“Like a machine.”

“Like a machine, yes,” the doctor swallows hard.

“What were the instructions?” the Asset asks.

“Before each mission, before feeding you, we were to make sure your scar tissue had not begun to obstruct your urethra. Do bloodwork. Check your hormone levels. Make sure that your testosterone was at the proper level for a healthy, adult male human. If not, we were to administer testosterone by injection,” the doctor explains.

“Seems like all that fuss could have been avoided by, you know, not cutting my fuckin’ dick and balls off,” the Asset says with a snort. (Was that a laugh? The Asset is using _humor_ to cope?)

“They had their reasons,” the doctor replies and immediately regrets his words.

“What reasons?” the Asset hisses, pushing his hand up a little, making the doctor lift his head (and, if the doctor was being completely honest, pee himself a little in sheer terror).

The doctor gurgles and the Asset relaxes the grip a hair. “Please don’t hurt me when I tell you. You… you ran away. From the Soviets. They had trouble bringing you back. They needed a solution. One that would, um, both discourage you from running away again, and, if that didn’t work, make it easier to, ah, recover you. When the injected testosterone wears off, symptoms include becoming more easily fatigued, gradual loss of muscle mass, irritability, lack of focus.” (The doctor finds it disconcerting to talk to the Asset about itself, its history as, let’s be honest, a tool, a _thing_ , when it is sitting here on top of him, looking and sounding almost human.)

“So they castrated me,” the Asset says with a wry smile. “And you’re gonna help me do something about it, right?”

“I can’t fix that, no, please,” the doctor snivels. “I didn’t actually gradate from medical school, wasn’t quite good enough for them, not with my _competition_.” The doctor sneers, thinking back. “ _HYDRA_ thought I was good enough, though. They gave me a job. I was good enough for what they needed me to do, but I can’t rebuild a penis from nothing.”

“I know that. I have scars where you worked on me. Other than this,” the Asset taps his metal shoulder,” I shouldn’t scar. A through-and-through bullet? A clean-edged stab wound? Shouldn’t scar. I don’t know how I know, but I know I _shouldn’t_. I know that I _didn’t_ used to. All I want from you is the testosterone, needles, anything else I’ll need to keep myself in working order, as you said.”

“If… if I give you everything, you won’t… won’t hurt me, please?” the doctor begged.

“I’m not _you_ ,” the Asset laughed, a harsh bark of a sound.

\------------------------------------

Bucky is feeling a little better now. He’s got three vials of testosterone, a handful of needles, half a box of individually-wrapped alcohol wipes, four sealed and sterile urinary catheters, and a new knowledge of his new normal. (He doesn’t exactly _like_ this new normal, but he’s well aware that there’s not much he can actually _do_ about it.) He’s got the testosterone vials triple-Ziploc’ed in a little travel cooler full of ice. Keeping them cool will be his biggest hitch right now, with no fixed address. Once these run out, well, he’ll figure out what to do then. Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll have settled down somewhere long enough to make a new identity, get a semi-legitimate prescription…

When Bucky leaves the safehouse, pre-dawn is just barely beginning to show in the sky. The doctor is tied up in the den, front door unlocked, seated relatively comfortably on the sofa (he’s not a monster, after all). The police will soon receive a call (from the doctor’s cell phone) about the whereabouts of a known HYDRA collaborator. By the time they arrive, Bucky will be long gone, the phone smashed and left in a McDonalds dumpster a mile away from the house.

He’ll survive. It’s what he does.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit, 14AUG17: So, apparently testosterone does not actually have to be refrigerated. This is what I get for being a non-T trans guy and making assumptions based on how stable it is in solution for HPLC lab testing. Oops. I may edit that section later.


End file.
